MARFA.And where, where, tell me, does he tarry now,Who dares usurp the title of my son?
ARCHBISHOP.E'en now he's moving on to Tscherinsko;His camp at Kioff has broke up, 'tis rumored;And with a force of mounted Polish troopsAnd Don Cossacks, he comes to push his claims.
MARFA.Oh, God Almighty, thanks, thanks, thanks, that thouHast sent me rescue and revenge at last!
ARCHBISHOP.How, Marfa, how am I to construe this?
MARFA.Ob, heavenly powers, conduct him safely here!Hover, oh all ye angels, round his banners!
ARCHBISHOP.Can it be so? The traitor, canst thou trust——
MARFA.He is my son. Yes! by these signs aloneI recognize him. By thy Czar's alarmI recognize him. Yes! He lives! He comes!Down, tyrant, from thy throne, and shake with fear!There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem;The genuine Czar—the rightful heir draws nigh,He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.
ARCHBISHOP.Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!
MARFA.At length—at length has dawned the day of vengeance,Of restoration. Innocence is draggedTo light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom.The haughty Godunow, my deadly foe,Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet;Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!
ARCHBISHOP.Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?
MARFA.Can terror blind your monarch so, that heShould hope deliverance from me—from me—Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong?I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heavenRestores me by a miracle from the grave,And to please him, the butcher of my house,Who piled upon me woes unspeakable?Yes, thrust from me the succor God has sentIn the sad evening of my heavy anguish?No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me,I have thee fast, I will not let thee free.Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last!At last launch forth against mine enemyThe long-pent anger of my inmost soul!Who was it, who,That shut me up within this living tomb,In all the strength and freshness of my youth,With all its feelings glowing in my breast?Who from my bosom rent my darling son,And chartered ruffian hands to take his life?Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered,When, with a yearning that would not be still,I watched throughout the long, long starry nights,And noted with my tears the hours elapse!The day of succor comes, and of revenge;I see the mighty glorying in his might.
ARCHBISHOP.You think the Czar will dread you—you mistake.
MARFA.He's in my power—one little word from me,One only, sets the seal upon his fate!It was for this thy master sent thee here!The eyes of Russia and of Poland nowAre closely bent upon me. If I ownThe Czarowitsch as Ivan's son and mine,Then all will do him homage; his the throne.If I disown him, then he is undone;For who will credit that his rightful mother,A mother wronged, so foully wronged as I,Could from her heart repulse its darling child,To league with the despoilers of her house?I need but speak one word and all the worldDeserts him as a traitor. Is't not so?This word you wish from me. That mighty service,Confess, I can perform for Godunow!
ARCHBISHOP.Thou wouldst perform it for thy country, andAvert the dread calamities of war,Shouldst thou do homage to the truth. Thyself,Ay, thou hast ne'er a doubt thy son is dead;And couldst thou testify against thy conscience?
MARFA.These sixteen years I've mourned his death; but yetI ne'er have seen his ashes. I believedHis death, there trusting to the general voiceAnd my sad heart—I now believe he lives,Trusting the general voice and my strong hope.'Twere impious, with audacious doubts, to seekTo set a bound to the Almighty's will;And even were he not my heart's dear son,Yet should he be the son of my revenge.In my child's room I take him to my breast,Whom heaven has sent me to avenge my wrongs.
ARCHBISHOP.Unhappy one, dost thou defy the strong?From his far-reaching arm thou art not safeEven in the convent's distant solitude.
MARFA.Kill me he may, and stifle in the grave,Or dungeon's gloom, my woman's voice, that itShall not reverberate throughout the world.This he may do; but force me to speak aughtAgainst my will, that can he not; though backedBy all thy craft—no, he has missed his aim!
ARCHBISHOP.Is this thy final purpose. Ponder well!Hast thou no gentler message for the Czar?
MARFA.Tell him to hope for heaven, if so he dare,And for his people's love, if so he can.
ARCHBISHOP.Enough! thou art bent on thy destruction.Thou lean'st upon a reed, will break beneath thee;One common ruin will o'erwhelm ye both.
[Exit.
MARFA.It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he.Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastesTake arms upon his side; the haughty Pole,The palatine, doth stake his noble daughterOn the pure gold of his most righteous cause,And I alone reject him—I, his mother?I, only I, shook not beneath the stormOf joy that lifts all hearts with dizzying whirl,And scatters turmoil widely o'er the earth.He is my son—I must, will trust in him,And grasp with living confidence the handWhich heaven hath sent for my deliverance.'Tis he, he comes with his embattled hosts,To set me free, and to avenge my shame!Hark to his drums, his martial trumpets' clang!Ye nations come—come from the east and south.Forth from your steppes, your immemorial woodsOf every tongue, of every raiment come!Bridle the steed, the reindeer, and the camel!Sweep hither, countless as the ocean waves,And throng around the banners of your king!Oh, wherefore am I mewed and fettered here,A prisoned soul with longings infinite!Thou deathless sun, that circlest earth's huge ball,Be thou the messenger of my desires!Thou all-pervading, chainless breeze that sweep'stWith lightning speed to earth's remotest bound,Oh, bear to him the yearnings of my heart.My prayers are all I have to give; but theseI pour all glowing from my inmost soul,And send them up to heaven on wings of flame,Like armed hosts, I send them forth to hail him.
A height crowned with trees. A wide and smiling landscape occupies the background, which is traversed by a beautiful river, and enlivened by the budding green of spring. At various points the towers of several towns are visible. Drums and martial music without. Enter ODOWALSKY, and other officers, and immediately afterwards DEMETRIUS.
ODOWALSKY.Go, lead the army downward by the wood,Whilst we look round us here upon the height.
[Exeunt some of the officers.
Enter DEMETRIUS.
DEMETRIUS (starting back).Ha! what a prospect!
ODOWALSKY.Sire, thou see'st thy kingdomSpread out before thee. That is Russian land.
RAZIN.Why, e'en this pillar here bears Moscow's arms;Here terminates the empire of the Poles.
DEMETRIUS.Is that the Dnieper, rolls its quiet streamAlong these meadows?
ODOWALSKY.That, sire, is the Desna;See, yonder rise the towers of Tschernizow!
RAZIN.Yon gleam you see upon the far horizonIs from the roofs of Sewerisch Novogrod.
DEMETRIUS.What a rich prospect! What fair meadow lands!
ODOWALSKY.The spring has decked them with her trim array;A teeming harvest clothes the fruitful soil.
DEMETRIUS.The view is lost in limitless expanse.
RAZIN.Yet is this but a small beginning, sire,Of Russia's mighty empire. For it spreadsTowards the east to confines unexplored,And on the north has ne'er a boundary,Save the productive energy of earth.Behold, our Czar is quite absorbed in thought.
DEMETRIUS.On these fair meads dwell peace, unbroken peace,And with war's terrible array I comeTo scatter havoc, like a listed foe!
ODOWALSKY.Hereafter 'twill be time to think of that.
DEMETRIUS.Thou feelest as a Pole, I am Moscow's son.It is the land to which I owe my life;Forgive me, thou dear soil, land of my home,Thou sacred boundary-pillar, which I clasp,Whereon my sire his broad-spread eagle graved,That I, thy son, with foreign foemen's arms,Invade the tranquil temple of thy peace.'Tis to reclaim my heritage I come,And the proud name that has been stolen from me.Here the Varegers, my forefathers, ruled,In lengthened line, for thirty generations;I am the last of all their lineage, snatchedFrom murder by God's special providence.
A Russian village. An open square before a church.The tocsin is heard. GLEB, ILIA, and TIMOSKA rush in,armed with hatchets.
GLEB (entering from a house).Why are they running?
ILIA (entering from another house).Who has tolled the bell.
TIMOSKA.Neighbors, come forth! Come all, to council come!
[Enter OLEG and IGOR, with many other peasants,women and children, who carry bundles.
GLEB.Whence come ye hither with your wives and children?
IGOR.Fly, fly! The Pole has fallen upon the landAt Maromesk, and slaughters all he finds.
OLEG.Fly into the interior—to strong towns!We've fired our cottages, there's not a soulLeft in the village, and we're making nowUp country for the army of the Czar.
TIMOSKA.Here comes another troop of fugitives.
[IWANSKA and PETRUSCHKA, with armed peasantry,enter on different sides.
IWANSKA.Long live the Czar! The mighty prince Dmitri!
GLEB.How! What is this!
ILIA.What do you mean?
TIMOSKA.Who are you?
PETRUSCHKA.Join all who're loyal to our princely line!
TIMOSKA.What means all this? There a whole village fliesUp country to escape the Poles, while youMake for the very point whence these have fled,To join the standard of the country's foe!
PETRUSCHKA.What foe? It is no foe that comes; it isThe people's friend, the emperor's rightful heir.
* * * * *
The POSADMIK (the village judge) enters to read a manifesto by Demetrius.Vacillation of the inhabitants of the village between the two parties.The peasant women are the first to be won over to Demetrius, and turn thescale.
Camp of DEMETRIUS. He is worsted in the first action, but the army of the Czar Boris conquers in a manner against its will, and does not follow up its advantages. Demetrius, in despair, is about to destroy himself, and is with difficulty prevented from doing so by Korela and Odowalsky. Overbearing demeanor of the Cossacks even to DEMETRIUS.
Camp of the army of the CZAR BORIS. He is absent himself, and this injures his cause, as he is feared but not loved. His army is strong, but not to be relied on. The leaders are not unanimous, and partly incline to the side of Demetrius from a variety of motives. One of their number, Soltikow, declares for him from conviction. His adherence is attended with the most important results; a large portion of the army deserts to DEMETRIUS.
BORIS in Moscow. He still maintains his position as absolute ruler, and has faithful servants around him; but already he is discomposed by evil tidings. He is withheld from joining the army by apprehension of a rebellion in Moscow. He is also ashamed as Czar to enter the field in person against a traitor. Scene between him and the archbishop.
Bad news pours in from all sides, and Boris' danger grows momently more imminent. He hears of the revolt of the peasantry and the provincial towns,—of the inactivity and mutiny of the army,—of the commotions in Moscow,—of the advance of Demetrius. Romanow, whom he has deeply wronged, arrives in Moscow. This gives rise to new apprehensions. Now come the tidings that the Boiars are flying to the camp of Demetrius, and that the whole army has gone over to him.
BORIS and AXINIA. The Czar appears in a touching aspect as father, and in the dialogue with his daughter unfolds his inmost nature.
BORIS has made his way to the throne by crime, but undertaken and fulfilled all the duties of a monarch; to the country he is a valuable prince and a true father of his people. It is only in his personal dealings with individuals that he is cunning, revengeful, and cruel. His spirit as well as his rank elevates him above all that surround him. The long possession of supreme power, the habit of ruling over men, and the despotic form of government, have so nursed his pride that it is impossible for him to outlive his greatness. He sees clearly what awaits him; but still he is Czar, and not degraded, though he resolves to die.
He believes in forewarnings, and in his present mood things appear to him of significance which, on other occasions, he had despised. A particular circumstance, in which he seems to hear the voice of destiny, decides him.
Shortly before his death his nature changes; he grows milder, even towards the messengers of evil, and is ashamed of the bursts of rage with which he had received them before. He permits the worst to be told to him, and even rewards the narrator.
So soon as he learns the misfortune that seals his fate, he leaves the stage without further explanation, with composure and resignation. Shortly afterwards he returns in the habit of a monk, and removes his daughter from the sight of his last moments. She is to seek protection from insult in a cloister; his son, Feodor, as a child, will perhaps have less to fear. He takes poison, and enters a retired chamber to die in peace.
General confusion at the tidings of the Czar's death. The Boiars form an imperial council and rule in the Kremlin. Romanow (afterwards Czar, and founder of the now ruling house) enters at the head of an armed force, swears, on the bosom of the Czar, an oath of allegiance to his son Feodor, and compels the Boiars to follow his example. Revenge and ambition are far from his soul; he pursues only justice. He loves Axinia without hope, and is, without knowing it, beloved by her in return.
ROMANOW hastens to the army to secure it for the young Czar.Insurrection in Moscow, brought about by the adherents of Demetrius.The people drag the Boiars from their houses, make themselves mastersof Feodor and Axinia—put them in prison, and send delegates toDemetrius.
DEMETRIUS in Tula, at the pinnacle of success. The army is his own; the keys of numerous towns are brought to him. Moscow alone appears to offer resistance. He is mild and amiable, testifies a noble emotion at the intelligence of the death of Boris, pardons a detected conspiracy against his life, despises the servile adulations of the Russians, and is for sending them away. The Poles, on the other hand, by whom he is surrounded, are rude and violent, and treat the Russians with contempt. Demetrius longs for a meeting with his mother, and sends a messenger to Marina.
Among the multitude of Russians who throng around Demetrius in Tula appears a man whom he at once recognizes; he is greatly delighted to see him. He bids all the rest withdraw, and so soon as he is alone with this man he thanks him, with full heart, as his preserver and benefactor. This person hints that Demetrius is under especial obligations to him, and to a greater extent than he is himself aware. Demetrius urges him to explain, and the assassin of the genuine Demetrius thereupon discloses the real facts of the case. For this murder he had received no recompense, but on the contrary had nothing but death to anticipate from Boris. Thirsting for revenge, he stumbled upon a boy, whose resemblance to the Czar Ivan struck him. This circumstance must be turned to account. He seized the boy, fled with him from Uglitsch, brought him to a monk, whom he succeeded in gaining over for his ends, and delivered to him the trinkets which he had himself taken from the murdered Demetrius. By means of this boy, whom he had never lost sight of, and whose steps he had attended upon all occasions without being observed, he is now revenged. His tool, the false Demetrius, rules over Russia in Boris' room.
During this narration a mighty change comes over Demetrius. His silence is awful. In the moment of the highest rage and despair, the assassin drives him to the extreme of endurance, when with a defying and insolent air he demands his reward. Demetrius strikes him to the earth.
Soliloquy of Demetrius. Internal conflict; but the feeling of the necessity for maintaining his position as Czar is triumphant.
The delegates from Moscow arrive, and submit themselves to Demetrius. They are received gloomily, and with a menacing demeanor. Among them is the Patriarch. Demetrius deposes him from his dignity, and soon afterwards sentences to death a Russian of rank, who had questioned the authenticity of his birth.
MARFA and OLGA await Demetrius under a magnificent tent. Marfa speaks of the approaching interview with more doubt and fear than hope, and trembles as the moment draws near which should assure her highest happiness. Olga speaks to her, herself without faith. During the long journey they have both had time to recall the whole circumstances; the first exultation had given place to reflection. The gloomy silence and the repulsive glances of the guards who surround the tent serve still further to augment their despondency.
The trumpets sound. Marfa is irresolute whether she shall advance to meet Demetrius. Now he stands before her alone. The little that was left of hope in her heart altogether vanishes on seeing him. An unknown something steps between them—Nature does not speak—they are separated forever. The first impulse is an endeavor to approach; Marfa is the first to make a movement to recede. Demetrius observes it, and remains for a moment paralyzed. Significant silence.
DEMETRIUS. Does thy heart say nothing? Dost thou not recognize thy blood in me?
MARFA is silent.
DEMETRIUS. The voice of nature is holy and free; I will neither constrain nor belie it. Had thy heart spoken at the first glance then had mine answered it; thou shouldst have found a pious, loving son in me. The claim of duty would have concurred with inclination and heartfelt affection. But if thou dost not feel as a mother for me, then, think as a princess, command thyself as a queen! Fate unexpectedly gave me to thee as a son; accept me as a gift of heaven. Though even I were not thy son, which I now appear to be, still I rob thy son of nothing. I stripped it from thy foe. Thee and thy blood have I avenged; I have delivered thee from the grave in which thou went entombed alive, and led thee back into the royal seat. That thy destiny is linked with mine thou knowest. With me thou standest, and with me must fall. All the people's eyes are upon us. I hate deception, and what I do not feel I may not show; but I do really feel a reverence for thee, and this feeling, which bends my knee before thee, comes from my heart.
[Dumb show of MARFA, to indicate her internal emotion.
DEMETRIUS. Make thy resolve! Let that which nature will not prompt be the free act of thy will! I ask no hypocrisy—no falsehood, from thee; I ask genuine feelings. Do not seem to be my mother, but be so. Throw the past from thee—grasp the present with thy whole heart! If I am not thy son yet I am the Czar—I have power and success upon my side. He who lies in his grave is dust; he has no heart to love thee, no eye to smile upon thee. Turn to the living.
[MARFA bursts into tears.
DEMETRIUS. Oh, these golden drops are welcome to me. Let them flow!Show thyself thus to the people!
[At a signal from DEMETRIUS the tent is thrown open, andthe assembled Russians become spectators of this scene.
Entrance of Demetrius into Moscow. Great splendor, but of a military kind. Poles and Cossacks compose the procession. Gloom and terror mingle with the demonstrations of joy. Distrust and misfortune surround the whole.
Romanow, who came to the army too late, has returned to Moscow to protectFeodor and Axinia. It is all in vain; he is himself thrown into prison.Axinia flies to Marfa, and at her feet implores protection against thePoles. Here Demetrius sees her, and a violent and irresistible passionis kindled in his breast. Axinia detests him.
DEMETRIUS as Czar. A fearful element sustains him, but he does not control it: he is urged on by the force of strange passions. His inward consciousness betokens a general distrust; he has no friend on whom he can rely. Poles and Cossacks, by their insolent licentiousness, injure him in the popular opinion. Even that which is creditable to him—his popular manners, simplicity, and contempt of stiff ceremonial, occasions dissatisfaction. Occasionally he offends, through inadvertency, the usages of the country. He persecutes the monks because he suffered severely under them. Moreover, he is not exempt from despotic caprices in the moments of offended pride. Odowalsky knows how to make himself at all times indispensable to him, removes the Russians to a distance, and maintains his overruling influence.
DEMETRIUS meditates inconstancy to Marina. He confers upon the point with the Archbishop Iob, who, in order to get rid of the Poles, falls in with his desire, and puts before him an exalted picture of the imperial power.
MARINA appears with a vast retinue in Moscow. Meeting with Demetrius. Hollow and cold meeting on both sides; she, however, wears her disguise with greater skill. She urges an immediate marriage. Preparations are made for a magnificent festival.
By the orders of Marina a cup of poison is brought to Axinia. Death is welcome to her; she was afraid of being forced to the altar with the Czar.
Violent grief of Demetrius. With a broken heart he goes to the betrothal with Marina.
After the marriage Marina discloses to him that she does not consider him to be the true Demetrius, and never did. She then coldly leaves him in a state of extreme anguish and dismay.
Meanwhile SCHINSKOI, one of the former generals of the Czar Boris, avails himself of the growing discontent of the people, and becomes the head of a conspiracy against Demetrius.
ROMANOW, in prison, is comforted by a supernatural apparition. Axinia's spirit stands before him, opens to him a prospect of happier times in store, and enjoins him calmly to allow destiny to ripen, and not to stain himself with blood. ROMANOW receives a hint that he may himself be called to the throne. Soon afterwards he is solicited to take part in the conspiracy, but declines.
SOLTIKOW reproaches himself bitterly for having betrayed his country to Demetrius. But he will not be a second time a traitor, and adheres, from principle and against his feelings, to the party which he has once adopted. As the misfortune has happened, he seeks at least to alleviate it, and to enfeeble the power of the Poles. He pays for this effort with his life; but he accepts death as a merited punishment, and confesses this when dying to Demetrius himself.
CASIMIR, a brother of LODOISKA, a young Polish lady, who has been secretly and hopelessly attached to Demetrius, in the house of the Waywode of Sendomir, has, at his sister's request, accompanied Demetrius in the campaign, and in every encounter defended him bravely. In the moment of danger, when all the other retainers of Demetrius think only of their personal safety, Casimir alone remains faithful to him, and sacrifices life in his defence.
The conspiracy breaks out. Demetrius is with Marfa when the leading conspirators force their way into the room. The dignity and courage of Demetrius have a momentary effect upon the rebels. He nearly succeeds in disarming them by a promise to place the Poles at their disposal. But at this point SCHINSKOI rushes in with an infuriated band. An explicit declaration is demanded from the ex-empress; she is required to swear, upon the cross, that Demetrius is her son. To testify against her conscience in a manner so solemn is impossible. She turns from Demetrius in silence, and is about to withdraw. "Is she silent?" exclaims the tumultuous throng. "Does she disown him?" "Then, traitor, die!" and Demetrius falls, pierced by their swords, at Marfa's feet.
By Frederich Schiller
ELIZABETH, Queen of England.MARY STUART, Queen of Scots, a Prisoner in England.ROBERT DUDLEY, Earl of Leicester.GEORGE TALBOT, Earl of Shrewsbury.WILLIAM CECIL, Lord Burleigh, Lord High Treasurer.EARL OF KENT.SIR WILLIAM DAVISON, Secretary of State.SIR AMIAS PAULET, Keeper of MARY.SIR EDWARD MORTIMER, his Nephew.COUNT L'AUBESPINE, the French Ambassador.O'KELLY, Mortimer's Friend.COUNT BELLIEVRE, Envoy Extraordinary from France.SIR DRUE DRURY, another Keeper of MARY.SIR ANDREW MELVIL, her House Steward.BURGOYNE, her Physician.HANNAH KENNEDY, her Nurse.MARGARET CURL, her Attendant.Sheriff of the County.Officer of the Guard.French and English Lords.Soldiers.Servants of State belonging to ELIZABETH.Servants and Female Attendants of the Queen of Scots.
A common apartment in the Castle of Fotheringay.
HANNAH KENNEDY, contending violently with PAULET, who is aboutto break open a closet; DRURY with an iron crown.
KENNEDY.How now, sir? what fresh outrage have we here?Back from that cabinet!
PAULET.Whence came the jewel?I know 'twas from an upper chamber thrown;And you would bribe the gardener with your trinkets.A curse on woman's wiles! In spite of allMy strict precaution and my active search,Still treasures here, still costly gems concealed!And doubtless there are more where this lay hid.
[Advancing towards the cabinet.
KENNEDY.Intruder, back! here lie my lady's secrets.
PAULET.Exactly what I seek.[Drawing forth papers.
KENNEDY.Mere trifling papers;The amusements only of an idle pen,To cheat the dreary tedium of a dungeon.
PAULET.In idle hours the evil mind is busy.
KENNEDY.Those writings are in French.
PAULET.So much the worse!That tongue betokens England's enemy.
KENNEDY.Sketches of letters to the Queen of England.
PAULET.I'll be their bearer. Ha! what glitters here?
[He touches a secret spring, and draws out jewels froma private drawer.
A royal diadem enriched with stones,And studded with the fleur-de-lis of France.
[He hands it to his assistant.
Here, take it, Drury; lay it with the rest.
[Exit DRURY.
[And ye have found the means to hide from usSuch costly things, and screen them, until now,From our inquiring eyes?]
KENNEDY.Oh, insolentAnd tyrant power, to which we must submit.
PAULET.She can work ill as long as she hath treasures;For all things turn to weapons in her hands.
KENNEDY (supplicating).Oh, sir! be merciful; deprive us notOf the last jewel that adorns our life!'Tis my poor lady's only joy to viewThis symbol of her former majesty;Your hands long since have robbed us of the rest.
PAULET.'Tis in safe custody; in proper time'Twill be restored to you with scrupulous care.
KENNEDY.Who that beholds these naked walls could sayThat majesty dwelt here? Where is the throne?Where the imperial canopy of state?Must she not set her tender foot, still usedTo softest treading, on the rugged ground?With common pewter, which the lowliest dameWould scorn, they furnish forth her homely table.
PAULET.Thus did she treat her spouse at Stirling once;And pledged, the while, her paramour in gold.
KENNEDY.Even the mirror's trifling aid withheld.
PAULET.The contemplation of her own vain imageIncites to hope, and prompts to daring deeds.
KENNEDY.Books are denied her to divert her mind.
PAULET.The Bible still is left to mend her heart.
KENNEDY.Even of her very lute she is deprived!
PAULET.Because she tuned it to her wanton airs.
KENNEDY.Is this a fate for her, the gentle born,Who in her very cradle was a queen?Who, reared in Catherine's luxurious court,Enjoyed the fulness of each earthly pleasure?Was't not enough to rob her of her power,Must ye then envy her its paltry tinsel?A noble heart in time resigns itselfTo great calamities with fortitude;But yet it cuts one to the soul to partAt once with all life's little outward trappings!
PAULET.These are the things that turn the human heartTo vanity, which should collect itselfIn penitence; for a lewd, vicious life,Want and abasement are the only penance.
KENNEDY.If youthful blood has led her into error,With her own heart and God she must account:There is no judge in England over her.
PAULET.She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed.
KENNEDY.Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression.
PAULET.And yet she found the means to stretch her armInto the world, from out these narrow bonds,And, with the torch of civil war, inflameThis realm against our queen (whom God preserve).And arm assassin bands. Did she not rouseFrom out these walls the malefactor Parry,And Babington, to the detested crimeOf regicide? And did this iron gratePrevent her from decoying to her toilsThe virtuous heart of Norfolk? Saw we notThe first, best head in all this island fallA sacrifice for her upon the block?[The noble house of Howard fell with him.]And did this sad example terrifyThese mad adventurers, whose rival zealPlunges for her into this deep abyss?The bloody scaffold bends beneath the weightOf her new daily victims; and we ne'erShall see an end till she herself, of allThe guiltiest, be offered up upon it.Oh! curses on the day when England tookThis Helen to its hospitable arms.
KENNEDY.Did England then receive her hospitably?Oh, hapless queen! who, since that fatal dayWhen first she set her foot within this realm,And, as a suppliant—a fugitive—Came to implore protection from her sister,Has been condemned, despite the law of nations,And royal privilege, to weep awayThe fairest years of youth in prison walls.And now, when she hath suffered everythingWhich in imprisonment is hard and bitter,Is like a felon summoned to the bar,Foully accused, and though herself a queen,Constrained to plead for honor and for life.
PAULET.She came amongst us as a murderess,Chased by her very subjects from a throneWhich she had oft by vilest deeds disgraced.Sworn against England's welfare came she hither,To call the times of bloody Mary back,Betray our church to Romish tyranny,And sell our dear-bought liberties to France.Say, why disdained she to subscribe the treatyOf Edinborough—to resign her claimTo England's crown—and with one single word,Traced by her pen, throw wide her prison gates?No:—she had rather live in vile confinement,And see herself ill-treated, than renounceThe empty honors of her barren title.Why acts she thus? Because she trusts to wiles,And treacherous arts of base conspiracy;And, hourly plotting schemes of mischief, hopesTo conquer, from her prison, all this isle.
KENNEDY.You mock us, sir, and edge your crueltyWith words of bitter scorn:—that she should formSuch projects; she, who's here immured alive,To whom no sound of comfort, not a voiceOf friendship comes from her beloved home;Who hath so long no human face beheld,Save her stern gaoler's unrelenting brows;Till now, of late, in your uncourteous cousinShe sees a second keeper, and beholdsFresh bolts and bars against her multiplied.
PAULET.No iron-grate is proof against her wiles.How do I know these bars are not filed through?How that this floor, these walls, that seem so strongWithout, may not be hollow from within,And let in felon treachery when I sleep?Accursed office, that's intrusted to me,To guard this cunning mother of all ill!Fear scares me from my sleep; and in the nightI, like a troubled spirit, roam and tryThe strength of every bolt, and put to proofEach guard's fidelity:—I see, with fear,The dawning of each morn, which may confirmMy apprehensions:—yet, thank God, there's hopeThat all my fears will soon be at an end;For rather would I at the gates of hellStand sentinel, and guard the devilish hostOf damned souls, than this deceitful queen.
KENNEDY.Here comes the queen.
PAULET.Christ's image in her hand.Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart.
The same. Enter MARY, veiled, a crucifix in her hand.
KENNEDY (hastening toward her).O gracious queen! they tread us under foot;No end of tyranny and base oppression;Each coming day heaps fresh indignities,New sufferings on thy royal head.
MARY.Be calm—Say, what has happened?
KENNEDY.See! thy cabinetIs forced—thy papers—and thy only treasure,Which with such pains we had secured, the lastPoor remnant of thy bridal ornamentsFrom France, is in his hands—naught now remainsOf royal state—thou art indeed bereft!
MARY.Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me,'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen—Basely indeed they may behave to us,But they cannot debase us. I have learnedTo use myself to many a change in England;I can support this too. Sir, you have takenBy force what I this very day designedTo have delivered to you. There's a letterAmongst these papers for my royal sisterOf England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor,To give it to her majesty's own hands,And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh.
PAULET.I shall consider what is best to do.
MARY.Sir, you shall know its import. In this letterI beg a favor, a great favor of her,—That she herself will give me audience,—sheWhom I have never seen. I have been summonedBefore a court of men, whom I can ne'erAcknowledge as my peers—of men to whomMy heart denies its confidence. The queenIs of my family, my rank, my sex;To her alone—a sister, queen, and woman—Can I unfold my heart.
PAULET.Too oft, my lady,Have you intrusted both your fate and honorTo men less worthy your esteem than these.
MARY.I, in the letter, beg another favor,And surely naught but inhumanityCan here reject my prayer. These many yearsHave I, in prison, missed the church's comfort,The blessings of the sacraments—and sheWho robs me of my freedom and my crown,Who seeks my very life, can never wishTo shut the gates of heaven upon my soul.
PAULET.Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you.
MARY (interrupting him sharply).Talk to me not of deans. I ask the aidOf one of my own church—a Catholic priest.
PAULET.[That is against the published laws of England.
MARY.The laws of England are no rule for me.I am not England's subject; I have ne'erConsented to its laws, and will not bowBefore their cruel and despotic sway.If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigorWhich I have borne, to add this new oppression,I must submit to what your power ordains;Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.]I also wish a public notary,And secretaries, to prepare my will—My sorrows and my prison's wretchednessPrey on my life—my days, I fear, are numbered—I feel that I am near the gates of death.
PAULET.These serious contemplations well become you.
MARY.And know I then that some too ready handMay not abridge this tedious work of sorrow?I would indite my will and make disposalOf what belongs tome.
PAULET.This libertyMay be allowed to you, for England's queenWill not enrich herself by plundering you.
MARY.I have been parted from my faithful women,And from my servants; tell me, where are they?What is their fate? I can indeed dispenseAt present with their service, but my heartWill feel rejoiced to know these faithful onesAre not exposed to suffering and to want!
PAULET.Your servants have been cared for; [and againYou shall behold whate'er is taken from youAnd all shall be restored in proper season.]
[Going.
MARY.And will you leave my presence thus again,And not relieve my fearful, anxious heartFrom the fell torments of uncertainty?Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies,I am divided from the world; no voiceCan reach me through these prison-walls; my fateLies in the hands of those who wish my ruin.A month of dread suspense is passed alreadySince when the forty high commissionersSurprised me in this castle, and erected,With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal;They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared,Without an advocate, from memory,Before their unexampled court, to answerTheir weighty charges, artfully arranged.They came like ghosts,—like ghosts they disappeared,And since that day all mouths are closed to me.In vain I seek to construe from your looksWhich hath prevailed—my cause's innocenceAnd my friends' zeal—or my foes' cursed counsel.Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst;What have I still to fear, and what to hope.
PAULET.Close your accounts with heaven.
MARY.From heaven I hopeFor mercy, sir; and from my earthly judgesI hope, and still expect, the strictest justice.
PAULET.Justice, depend upon it, will be done you.
MARY.Is the suit ended, sir?
PAULET.I cannot tell.
MARY.Am I condemned?
PAULET.I cannot answer, lady.
MARY.[Sir, a good work fears not the light of day.
PAULET.The day will shine upon it, doubt it not.]
MARY.Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meantThe murderer shall surprise me, like the judges?
PAULET.Still entertain that thought and he will find youBetter prepared to meet your fate than they did.
MARY (after a pause).Sir, nothing can surprise me which a courtInspired by Burleigh's hate and Hatton's zeal,Howe'er unjust, may venture to pronounce:But I have yet to learn how far the queenWill dare in execution of the sentence.
PAULET.The sovereigns of England have no fearBut for their conscience and their parliament.What justice hath decreed her fearless handWill execute before the assembled world.
The same. MORTIMER enters, and without paying attentionto the QUEEN, addresses PAULET.
MORTIMER.Uncle, you're sought for.
[He retires in the same manner. The QUEEN remarks it, andturns towards PAULET, who is about to follow him.
MARY.Sir, one favor moreIf you have aught to say to me—from youI can bear much—I reverence your gray hairs;But cannot bear that young man's insolence;Spare me in future his unmannered rudeness.
PAULET.I prize him most for that which makes you hate himHe is not, truly, one of those poor foolsWho melt before a woman's treacherous tears.He has seen much—has been to Rheims and Paris,And brings us back his true old English heart.Lady, your cunning arts are lost on him.
[Exit.
KENNEDY.And dare the ruffian venture to your faceSuch language! Oh, 'tis hard—'tis past endurance.
MARY (lost in reflection).In the fair moments of our former splendorWe lent to flatterers a too willing ear;—It is but just, good Hannah, we should nowBe forced to hear the bitter voice of censure.
KENNEDY.So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady!You, who before so gay, so full of hope,Were used to comfort me in my distress;More gracious were the task to check your mirthThan chide your heavy sadness.
MARY.Well I know him—It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade,Rising in anger from his darksome graveAnd never will he make his peace with meUntil the measures of my woes be full.
KENNEDY.What thoughts are these—
MARY.Thou may'st forget it, Hannah;But I've a faithful memory—'tis this dayAnother wretched anniversaryOf that regretted, that unhappy deed—Which I must celebrate with fast and penance.
KENNEDY.Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit.The penitence of many a heavy year,Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed;The church, which holds the key of absolution,Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased.
MARY.This long-atoned crime arises freshAnd bleeding from its lightly-covered grave;My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge;No sacred bell can exorcise, no hostIn priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb.
KENNEDY.You did not murder him; 'twas done by others.
MARY.But it was known to me; I suffered it,And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.
KENNEDY.Your youth extenuates your guilt. You wereOf tender years.
MARY.So tender, yet I drewThis heavy guilt upon my youthful head.
KENNEDY.You were provoked by direst injuries,And by the rude presumption of the man,Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven,Your love drew forth, and raised above all others.Whom through your bridal chamber you conductedUp to your throne, and with your lovely self,And your hereditary crown, distinguished[Your work was his existence, and your graceBedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.]Could he forget that his so splendid lotWas the creation of your generous love?Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it.With base suspicions, and with brutal manners,He wearied your affections, and becameAn object to you of deserved disgust:The illusion, which till now had overcastYour judgment, vanished; angrily you fledHis foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn.And did he seek again to win your love?Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon?Or fall in deep repentance at your feet?No; the base wretch defied you; he, who wasYour bounty's creature, wished to play your king,[And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.]Before your eyes he had your favorite singer,Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avengeWith blood the bloody deed——
MARY.And bloodily,I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me:You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.
KENNEDY.You were, when you consented to this deed,No more yourself; belonged not to yourself;The madness of a frantic love possessed you,And bound you to a terrible seducer,The wretched Bothwell. That despotic manRuled you with shameful, overbearing will,And with his philters and his hellish artsInflamed your passions.
MARY.All the arts he usedWere man's superior strength and woman's weakness.
KENNEDY.No, no, I say. The most pernicious spiritsOf hell he must have summoned to his aid,To cast this mist before your waking senses.Your ear no more was open to the voiceOf friendly warning, and your eyes were shutTo decency; soft female bashfulnessDeserted you; those cheeks, which were beforeThe seat of virtuous, blushing modesty,Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire.You cast away the veil of secrecy,And the flagitious daring of the manO'ercame your natural coyness: you exposedYour shame, unblushingly, to public gaze:You let the murderer, whom the people followedWith curses, through the streets of Edinburgh,Before you bear the royal sword of ScotlandIn triumph. You begirt your parliamentWith armed bands; and by this shameless farce,There, in the very temple of great justice,You forced the judges of the land to clearThe murderer of his guilt. You went still further—O God!
MARY.Conclude—nay, pause not—say for thisI gave my hand in marriage at the altar.
KENNEDY.O let an everlasting silence veilThat dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it.A crime to stain the darkest criminal!Yet you are no such lost one, that I know.I nursed your youth myself—your heart is framedFor tender softness: 'tis alive to shame,And all your fault is thoughtless levity.Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits,Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breastTheir fatal residence, and there delightTo act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry backUnto their native hell, and leave behindRemorse and horror in the poisoned bosom.Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life,You have done nothing ill; your conduct hasBeen pure; myself can witness your amendment.Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace.Whatever cause you have for penitence,You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen,Nor England's parliament can be your judge.Here might oppresses you: you may presentYourself before this self-created courtWith all the fortitude of innocence.
MARY.I hear a step.
KENNEDY.It is the nephew—In.
The same. Enter MORTIMER, approaching cautiously.
MORTIMER (to KENNEDY).Step to the door, and keep a careful watch,I have important business with the queen.
MARY (with dignity).I charge thee, Hannah, go not hence—remain.
MORTIMER.Fear not, my gracious lady—learn to know me.
[He gives her a card.
MARY (She examines it, and starts back astonished).Heavens! What is this?
MORTIMER (to KENNEDY).Retire, good Kennedy;See that my uncle comes not unawares.
MARY (to KENNEDY, who hesitates, and looks at the QUEEN inquiringly).Go in; do as he bids you.
[KENNEDY retires with signs of wonder.
MARY.From my uncleIn France—the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain?
[She reads.
"Confide in Mortimer, who brings you this;You have no truer, firmer friend in England."
[Looking at him with astonishment.
Can I believe it? Is there no delusionTo cheat my senses? Do I find a friendSo near, when I conceived myself abandonedBy the whole world? And find that friend in you,The nephew of my gaoler, whom I thoughtMy most inveterate enemy?
MORTIMER (kneeling).Oh, pardon,My gracious liege, for the detested mask,Which it has cost me pain enough to wear;Yet through such means alone have I the powerTo see you, and to bring you help and rescue.
MARY.Arise, sir; you astonish me; I cannotSo suddenly emerge from the abyssOf wretchedness to hope: let me conceiveThis happiness, that I may credit it.
MORTIMER.Our time is brief: each moment I expectMy uncle, whom a hated man attends;Hear, then, before his terrible commissionSurprises you, how heaven prepares your rescue.
MARY.You come in token of its wondrous power.
MORTIMER.Allow me of myself to speak.
MARY.Say on.
MORTIMER.I scarce, my liege, had numbered twenty years,Trained in the path of strictest disciplineAnd nursed in deadliest hate to papacy,When led by irresistible desireFor foreign travel, I resolved to leaveMy country and its puritanic faithFar, far behind me: soon with rapid speedI flew through France, and bent my eager courseOn to the plains of far-famed Italy.'Twas then the time of the great jubilee:And crowds of palmers filled the public roads;Each image was adorned with garlands; 'twasAs if all human-kind were wandering forthIn pilgrimage towards the heavenly kingdom.The tide of the believing multitudeBore me too onward, with resistless force,Into the streets of Rome. What was my wonder,As the magnificence of stately columnsRushed on my sight! the vast triumphal arches,The Colosseum's grandeur, with amazementStruck my admiring senses; the sublimeCreative spirit held my soul a prisonerIn the fair world of wonders it had framed.I ne'er had felt the power of art till now.The church that reared me hates the charms of sense;It tolerates no image, it adoresBut the unseen, the incorporeal word.What were my feelings, then, as I approachedThe threshold of the churches, and within,Heard heavenly music floating in the air:While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamedCrowds of celestial forms in endless train—When the Most High, Most Glorious pervadedMy captivated sense in real presence!And when I saw the great and godlike visions,The Salutation, the Nativity,The Holy Mother, and the Trinity'sDescent, the luminous transfigurationAnd last the holy pontiff, clad in allThe glory of his office, bless the people!Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewelsWith which the kings of earth adorn themselves!He is alone surrounded by the Godhead;His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom,For not of earthly moulding are these forms!
MARY.O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no moreLife's verdant carpet out before my eyes,Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner.
MORTIMER.I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swiftMy prison-gates flew open, when at onceMy spirit felt its liberty, and hailedThe smiling dawn of life. I learned to burstEach narrow prejudice of education,To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths,And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd.Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal,Encouraged me, and with the gallant FrenchThey kindly led me to your princely uncle,The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man!How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great!Born to control the human mind at will!The very model of a royal priest;A ruler of the church without an equal!
MARY.You've seen him then,—the much loved, honored man,Who was the guardian of my tender years!Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me?Does fortune favor him? And prospers stillHis life? And does he still majestic stand,A very rock and pillar of the church?
MORTIMER.The holy man descended from his height,And deigned to teach me the important creedOf the true church, and dissipate my doubts.He showed me how the glimmering light of reasonServes but to lead us to eternal error:That what the heart is called on to believeThe eye must see: that he who rules the churchMust needs be visible; and that the spiritOf truth inspired the councils of the fathers.How vanished then the fond imaginingsAnd weak conceptions of my childish soulBefore his conquering judgment, and the softPersuasion of his tongue! So I returnedBack to the bosom of the holy church,And at his feet abjured my heresies.
MARY.Then of those happy thousands you are one,Whom he, with his celestial eloquence,Like the immortal preacher of the mount,Has turned and led to everlasting joy!
MORTIMER.The duties of his office called him soonTo France, and I was sent by him to Rheims,Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor, priestsAre trained to preach our holy faith in England.There, 'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan,And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop,Who pass in France their joyless days of exile.I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men,And fortified my faith. As I one dayRoamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was struckWith a fair female portrait; it was fullOf touching wond'rous charms; with magic mightIt moved my inmost soul, and there I stoodSpeechless, and overmastered by my feelings."Well," cried the bishop, "may you linger thusIn deep emotion near this lovely face!For the most beautiful of womankind,Is also matchless in calamity.She is a prisoner for our holy faith,And in your native land, alas! she suffers."
[MARY is in great agitation. He pauses.
MARY.Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed,While such a friend remains in my misfortunes!
MORTIMER.Then he began, with moving eloquence,To paint the sufferings of your martyrdom;He showed me then your lofty pedigree,And your descent from Tudor's royal house.He proved to me that you alone have rightTo reign in England, not this upstart queen,The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed,Whom Henry's self rejected as a bastard.[He from my eyes removed delusion's mist,And taught me to lament you as a victim,To honor you as my true queen, whom I,Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows,Had ever hated as my country's foe.]I would not trust his evidence alone;I questioned learned doctors; I consultedThe most authentic books of heraldry;And every man of knowledge whom I askedConfirmed to me your claim's validity.And now I know that your undoubted rightTo England's throne has been your only wrong,This realm is justly yours by heritage,In which you innocently pine as prisoner.
MARY.Oh, this unhappy right!—'tis this aloneWhich is the source of all my sufferings.
MORTIMER.Just at this time the tidings reached my earsOf your removal from old Talbot's charge,And your committal to my uncle's care.It seemed to me that this disposal markedThe wond'rous, outstretched hand of favoring heaven;It seemed to be a loud decree of fate,That it had chosen me to rescue you.My friends concur with me; the cardinalBestows on me his counsel and his blessing,And tutors me in the hard task of feigning.The plan in haste digested, I commencedMy journey homewards, and ten days agoOn England's shores I landed. Oh, my queen.
[He pauses.
I saw then, not your picture, but yourself—Oh, what a treasure do these walls enclose!No prison this, but the abode of gods,More splendid far than England's royal court.Happy, thrice happy he, whose envied lotPermits to breathe the selfsame air with you!It is a prudent policy in herTo bury you so deep! All England's youthWould rise at once in general mutiny,And not a sword lie quiet in its sheath:Rebellion would uprear its giant head,Through all this peaceful isle, if Britons onceBeheld their captive queen.
MARY.'Twere well with her,If every Briton saw her with your eyes!
MORTIMER.Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs,Your meekness, and the noble fortitudeWith which you suffer these indignities—Would you not then emerge from all these trialsLike a true queen? Your prison's infamy,Hath it despoiled your beauty of its charms?You are deprived of all that graces life,Yet round you life and light eternal beam.Ne'er on this threshold can I set my foot,That my poor heart with anguish is not torn,Nor ravished with delight at gazing on you.Yet fearfully the fatal time draws near,And danger hourly growing presses on.I can delay no longer—can no moreConceal the dreadful news.
MARY.My sentence then!It is pronounced? Speak freely—I can bear it.
MORTIMER.It is pronounced! The two-and-forty judgesHave given the verdict, "guilty"; and the HousesOf Lords and Commons, with the citizensOf London, eagerly and urgentlyDemand the execution of the sentence:—The queen alone still craftily delays,That she may be constrained to yield, but notFrom feelings of humanity or mercy.
MARY (collected).Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified.I have been long prepared for such a message.Too well I know my judges. After allTheir cruel treatment I can well conceiveThey dare not now restore my liberty.I know their aim: they mean to keep me hereIn everlasting bondage, and to bury,In the sepulchral darkness of my prison,My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims.
MORTIMER.Oh, no, my gracious queen;—they stop not there:Oppression will not be content to doIts work by halves:—as long as e'en you live,Distrust and fear will haunt the English queen.No dungeon can inter you deep enough;Your death alone can make her throne secure.
MARY.Will she then dare, regardless of the shame,Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?
MORTIMER.She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.
MARY.And can she thus roll in the very dustHer own, and every monarch's majesty?
MORTIMER.She thinks on nothing now but present danger,Nor looks to that which is so far removed.
MARY.And fears she not the dread revenge of France?
MORTIMER.With France she makes an everlasting peace;And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.
MARY.Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?
MORTIMER.She fears not a collected world in arms?If with her people she remains at peace.
MARY.Were this a spectacle for British eyes?
MORTIMER.This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,Seen many a royal woman from the throneDescend and mount the scaffold:—her own motherAnd Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?
MARY (after a pause).No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you;'Tis but the honest care of your true heart,Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear:There are so many still and secret meansBy which her majesty of England maySet all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ereAn executioner is found for me,Assassins will be hired to do their work.'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer:I never lift the goblet to my lipsWithout an inward shuddering, lest the draughtMay have been mingled by my sister's love.
MORTIMER.No:—neither open or disguised murderShall e'er prevail against you:—fear no more;All is prepared;—twelve nobles of the landAre my confederates, and have pledged to-day,Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,With dauntless arm, from this captivity.Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.
NARY.You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!An evil boding penetrates my heart.Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scaredBy Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?Nor by the ruin of those many victimsWho have, in such attempts, found certain death,And only made my chains the heavier?Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!Fly, if there yet be time for you, beforeThat crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,And mix his traitors in your secret plots.Fly hence:—as yet, success hath never smiledOn Mary Stuart's champions.
MORTIMER.I am not scaredBy Babington and Tichburn's bloody headsSet up as warnings upon London's bridge;Nor by the ruin of those many victimsWho have, in such attempts, found certain death:They also found therein immortal honor,And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss.
MARY.It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me:—My enemies are watchful, and the powerIs in their hands. It is not Paulet onlyAnd his dependent host; all England guardsMy prison gates: Elizabeth's free willAlone can open them.
MORTIMER.Expect not that.
MARY.One man alone on earth can open them.
MORTIMER.Oh, let me know his name!
MARY.Lord Leicester.